


Waiting for the Starjammers

by lonelywalker



Category: X-Men (movies) RPF, X-Men RPF
Genre: BFFs, Gen, Hijinks & Shenanigans, Space Pirates, Theatre
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-12-24
Updated: 2013-12-24
Packaged: 2018-01-05 22:28:11
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,560
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1099309
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lonelywalker/pseuds/lonelywalker
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sir Patrick cleared his throat. “Sir Ian,” he said. “We are by no means mounting a Broadway production of <i>Waiting for Godot</i> with space pirates.”</p><p>“Ah,” said Sir Ian, lifting his pint glass with a wink. “We’ll see about that.”</p>
            </blockquote>





	Waiting for the Starjammers

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Lizzen](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lizzen/gifts).



> Liberties have been taken with people, time, space, reality, and Ben Brantley's [actual _Waiting for Godot_ review](http://www.nytimes.com/2013/11/25/theater/reviews/no-mans-land-and-waiting-for-godot-at-the-cort.html), among other things.

“Space pirates.”

“ _Space_ pirates?”

“Space. Pirates.”

Sir Patrick cleared his throat. “Sir Ian,” he said. “We are by no means mounting a Broadway production of _Waiting for Godot_ with space pirates.”

“Ah,” said Sir Ian, lifting his pint glass with a wink. “We’ll see about that.”

***

It had all begun more than ten years ago while they were camped out in a comfy trailer that was in no way comfy enough for the Canadian winter. Sir Patrick – who had been merely Patrick in those distant, uncivilised days – had been nursing a hot coffee mug, and Sir Ian, wearing a puffy thermal jacket over his Magneto frock, was browsing yet another stack of comics.

“Did you know,” Sir Ian said, “that there are space pirates in these books?”

Several decades ago, the Royal Shakespeare Company had been in the business of snatching up young men and women from their rural, regional lives, stripping them of their slovenly accents, and endowing them with powerfully resonant voices that could propel sharply-pronounced RP English to the backs of the largest theatres and beyond. Any person possessed of such a voice could imbue even the silliest dialogue with profound meaning. Which was simply a given when the subject was _King Lear_ , and an absolute necessity whenever spaceships and mutant powers were involved.

“Is anything not in these books? They’ve been running for fifty years.”

“Hmm, but space pirates. The mind does boggle.”

Something, a distant memory, stirred in Patrick’s mind. “Is that the Lilandra storyline?”

“Indeed!” Sir Ian tapped a finger against the impressively-coiffed young lady on the cover. She was proclaiming her own name in giant capital letters. “Apparently you fake your death and go to live with an alien princess, leaving me to look after the school.”

“And hijinks ensue.”

“Not as many as I’d hoped… Although apparently there’s a horse with wings…” Sir Ian’s brow became even more deeply furrowed as he picked up the next issue and paged through it. “In any case, James was telling me that Cyclops’ _father_ -”

“Are you expecting me to believe you pay any attention to anything James Marsden says?”

“Oh please, with all the strapping muscular young fellows around he’s positively banal by comparison. I’ve almost convinced Hugh to come with me to a nude beach… If we can find any nude beaches in this godforsaken country.”

“Maybe we can film the sequel in warmer climes.”

“Yes, yes. But as I was saying, apparently the X-Men discover that Cyclops’ father is actually a _space pirate_.”

“Of course he is.”

“He’s part of a group called the Starjammers. Doesn’t that sound absolutely brilliant? Speaking of a sequel, I must tell Bryan.”

“He already knows. And he _promised_ me we’d be sticking to the more gritty aspects of the series. This isn’t Space Invaders, it’s an allegory for gay rights and racial equality.”

Outside, an intern tapped on the door and hesitantly called for Magneto to present himself for the next shot.

“I shall remember that,” Sir Ian said, placing his helmet firmly on his head and sweeping out of the door.

***

The morning following the pub conversation, their director Sean looked rather worse for wear. Sir Patrick wondered briefly how long Sir Ian had kept him up, either by phone or in person. Apparently the two of them actually _owned_ the pub, so perhaps they’d just never left.

“Patrick,” he started, with the air of someone trying to determine what exactly he might have done last night, who exactly he might have kissed, and the likelihood of it having been a lamppost. “Patrick. You know I have the utmost love and respect for both of you, and those other two,” he gestured vaguely at the actors playing Lucky and Pozzo, as no one could ever remember their names, “and I deeply value your creative contributions… But this might be one creative contribution too many.”

Sir Patrick looked at Sean. He looked at Sir Ian. He looked back at Sean. “Did he tell you this was _my_ idea?”

“Well it is more your area of expertise, dear, you have to admit.” Sir Ian was actually daring to smirk over the rim of his coffee mug.

“I’m completely onboard with the idea of a Broadway run, of course,” Sean resumed. “This is a timeless play, and with you two it almost literally sells itself. But I think space pirates may be… Shall we say a step too far? I think we shall.”

“This has nothing to do with _Star Trek_!” Sir Patrick leveled a finger and jabbed it in Sir Ian’s direction. “He has some kind of _obsession_ …”

“You know, Sean, there are precedents.” Sir Ian cleared his throat. “Perhaps we shouldn’t be so hasty. Reinterpretation is the lifeblood of the theatre. Branagh’s doing _Thor_. Alan Cumming’s performing the Scottish Play as a one-man-show in a madhouse.”

Sir Patrick crossed his arms. “Naturally he’ll take on fifteen roles in one play rather than put on some blue makeup and a tail.”

Sir Ian raised his eyebrows. “Oh, he’s not coming back?”

“ _You’re_ coming back?”

“Of course! Bryan said it was all very hush-hush or I’d have mentioned it before. He’s been texting me shirtless photos of Fassbender since March.” Sir Ian took out his phone and started fiddling with it.

Sir Patrick reminded himself not to leave his own phone anywhere Sir Ian could see it. Not that Jennifer Lawrence really catered to his tastes. “I was reluctant,” he said. “It’s time travel and dystopian futures… But Bryan assured me it will be the gritty, allegorical side of-”

“I think Sir Pat may have forgotten he was in _Dune_ ,” Sir Ian said.

“Which is the perfect example of the ways in which extraordinary scenarios can still tell relevant, character-rich stories. _Dune_ , _Star Trek_ , _Lord of th_ -” Too late he realised where this was going. “But that does not mean I endorse space pirates!”

Sir Ian raised his phone and took a photo. “Discussing space pirate version of Godot with @SirPatStew,” he read aloud, typing with one finger. “There…”

“You cannot use the internet against me like that. Besides, it’s the middle of the night for most Americans. No one’s even going to see-”

“Wil Wheaton’s awake,” Sir Ian reported. “He seems to be very worked up about some sort of sports event. Ah, and now Neil Gaiman’s retweeted me…”

Sir Patrick facepalmed. So what if it was a meme? Sometimes it was truly necessary.

“Well, now Sunny thinks it’s a wonderful idea.”

“What? Let me see that.” Sir Patrick seized the phone. And yes, there it was, a retweet from @sunnyozell, with _YES!!!_ as her only comment. “She’s supposed to be on my side.”

“As far as I’m concerned, you should marry her,” Sir Ian said. “I should marry you both.”

Another message flashed up on the screen. @BryanSinger: _Professor X and Magneto join the Starjammers. Love it!_

“I have terrible, terrible friends,” Sir Patrick said. He sighed, thinking about the last time he had taken advice from Sir Ian. Which was never. “Fine, we’ll do the space pirates. But I get final approval on my costume.”

Sir Ian beamed.

***

Publicity was of course a necessary evil of the entertainment world. You not only had to perform, but also whore yourself out to the social media, to talk shows, to a wide variety of promotional shots sure to adorn the newspapers. Still, Twitter had turned out to be much more fun than Sir Patrick had expected, watching his followers grow by the tens of thousands while Sir Ian took photos of everything within sight. Sir Patrick had decided to retaliate by taking photos of him, too. Alas, no actor was ever shy of too much attention.

Currently, he who had once been “the most gorgeous young man on the British stage” was posing in faux-leather trousers and an eyepatch for the press of the theatrical world. All the actors had been forced to retain hats due to the restrictions of the script, despite Sir Ian’s protests that headwear was surely inadvisable in zero-gravity. Sir Patrick, drawing on his greater knowledge, had pointed out that eyepatches would be equally unnecessary, given that any society able to travel between the stars would naturally have developed bionic eyes.

“Such a society,” Sir Ian had snapped, “would also have _no_ appreciation for tradition!”

Sean had begged them to desist from wielding actual rayguns, and Sir Ian had reluctantly bowed to his argument that Vladimir and Estragon would doubtless have lost them during whatever conflict had led up to their sorry situation at the beginning of the play. And, indeed, the presence of such rayguns might have invalidated their conversation regarding how best to kill themselves. Coincidentally, Sir Patrick had thought that their presence might _generate_ a conversation regarding how best to kill himself. And Sir Ian too.

“This is such fun!” Sir Ian said when the press finally released him. “And I’ve had the perfect idea for how to promote the play.”

Sir Patrick indicated Sir Ian’s costume. He indicated his own, which involved nothing less than a sash and cape. “This isn’t enough?”

“Dear boy, no! I hate to say it, Sir Pat, but your gloomy Yorkshire nature is bleeding through. Where’s your flamboyant, sunny attitude? Never mind, I’ll ask the Twittersphere.” The flash of his phone’s camera was dazzling.

Sir Patrick shaded his eyes. If only he’d heeded Sir Ian’s suggestion to wear aviator goggles. Not so long ago, wearing these showy costumes would have sent Sir Ian into fits of giggles, whereas Sir Patrick (not Sir Patrick back then, either) had already been broadcast into millions of homes wearing a spandex jumpsuit for seven years. Those _X-Men_ movies had a lot to answer for.

“Come along, come along.” Sir Ian tugged on Sir Patrick's cravat, making for the stage door. “We have a limited budget, of course, so I thought – why not run the promo campaign ourselves?”

“Why not indeed.”

“All we need to do is take pictures of ourselves in interesting locations and post them to Twitter. Then they’ll go viral.”

Sir Patrick had worn many odd things in public in his life, and he probably wasn’t in the top 250 oddly-dressed men in NYC, but... “Shouldn’t we actually rehearse?”

“How many times have we done this play already? At least now we won’t be mistaken for homeless people. Come along!”

And so, in the weeks to come, the streets and people of New York were treated to “the Two Sirs” in various locations and undertaking various activities, either in full costume or with just the hats and a few other accoutrements. They took photos of themselves at the top of the Empire State Building, on Coney Island, molesting the Wall Street Bull... 

“Some uncouth young man just yelled ‘Dumbledore!’ at me,” Sir Ian said as they jogged along the Brooklyn Bridge, having persuaded a bemused tourist to assist them with the camera. “I’d like to see Michael Gambon carry off these trousers!”

They visited the historic Stonewall Inn, and knocked back pints (possibly a few more than really necessary) in McSorley’s. For Halloween, (now-Lady) Sunny found it inexplicably easy to talk Sir Patrick into a giant red lobster costume. And continuing the giant red theme, they introduced themselves to Elmo in Times Square.

“He’s much larger than I expected,” Sir Patrick remarked after they’d taken the photograph.

Sir Ian nodded sympathetically. “People tell me that all the time.”

And finally, Sir Patrick found himself, sans pirate costume, being interviewed on _The Daily Show_ by his namesake (not-Sir) Jon Stewart.

“I feel I have to ask,” Sir Patrick said as the applause died down and he took his seat, “why I’m here rather than my esteemed theatrical colleague.”

“Sir Ian McKellen, you mean?”

The applause resumed.

“Yes… I can’t help but feel he might be more suited to explaining the play to you tonight.”

Jon threw up his hands. “Pfft, explain. Some of my guests go through entire interviews and we have no idea why they came here. But I do happen to know that Sir Ian will be with us in a couple of months when _The Hobbit_ ’s released.”

“Oh, _The Hobbit_. He’s got the truly Sisyphean task of marketing the sequel to a beloved blockbuster smash, which itself is following on from three of the most successful films in history. And I’m here trying to sell you on Godot with space pirates.”

“In my experience, space pirates sell themselves. But I have to know… I mean, we could watch you two guys read menus to each other. But did you feel that this classic Beckett play was somehow _lacking_ in space pirates?”

“Well, Beckett’s lacking in almost everything, quite frankly.” Sir Patrick smiled as the audience laughed. Were American schoolchildren forced to page through the plays too? “Not, uh, artistically-speaking, of course, but from the point of view of, well…”

Jon nodded. “Space pirates.”

“Indeed,” Sir Patrick said warmly. “Space pirates.”

***

After opening night, the early edition’s arrival should have been welcomed with a blast of trumpets when Sean opened the door of Sir Patrick’s Brooklyn apartment and slipped inside. Sir Ian had made another Fortifying Risotto, to which Sir Patrick had added several bottles of Equally Fortifying (If Not More So) Wine, and the mood was therefore merry-but-stuffed.

“So?” Sir Ian said, refilling all their glasses. 

“It’s... not bad.” Sean unfurled the paper and began to read. “In the _absurdly_ enjoyable revival of Samuel Beckett’s _Waiting for Godot_ , lions of the stage Ian McKellen and Patrick Stewart make a persuasive case for even this, one of the most apparently bizarre interpretations of a classic work ever mounted on Broadway. Neither Mr. McKellen nor Mr. Stewart, both knights of the realm, is a stranger to mass-appeal blockbusters featuring wizards, mutants and starships, and through their masterful-”

“Masterful,” Sir Ian repeated, nodding.

“Let me see that!” Sir Patrick took the paper and found the place. Somehow the words were still there. Sean hadn’t been making any of it up. “…through their masterful performances, Beckett begins to feel at home in _this_ realm as well. Here, the void Vladimir and Estragon hope to fill is a literal one, the vast starlessness of space suggesting a dying universe folding in upon itself, as empty as the pirates’ spiritual lives. Yet all they have to fill it with is speech, as well as the garish, outlandish costumes donned by the actors. It is this very garishness that lends the characters our sympathies and our wonder.”

He shot a glance at Sir Ian, who was still nodding, no doubt tweeting something on his phone as well.

“What better days have they seen,” he resumed, “what exciting youths did they experience? Here, Mr. Stewart and Mr. McKellen draw ragged remnants together to construct a truly remarkable production.”

Sir Patrick folded the paper neatly in two and set it down on the table. “Well. I suppose I really should take this opportunity to thank Sean and everyone else in the cast and crew for making this such a success. And… and Sir Ian, of course. I can only apologise for ever doubting you, old friend.” 

“Excellent, excellent,” said Sir Ian said, clapping. “See, Sir Patrick and I - we’re peers, equals, not rivals. Now, to whom do we talk about the film version?”


End file.
